


Certainty

by cadmean



Category: The Malazan Book of the Fallen - Steven Erikson
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Missing Scene, No Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 07:43:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4779176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadmean/pseuds/cadmean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the eve of the Siege of Y'Ghatan, Dassem and Dancer have one final conversation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Certainty

The Siege of Y’Ghatan was yet in its infancy, and already the sands were running red with blood. Even now, with the moon hanging high above in the sky, the screams of the dying still filled the air – cursing the Malazan forces as well as Seven Cities’ leader cadre in equal measure. Dassem had learned to drown them out years ago.

His tent was near the middle of the army’s camp, and though it was late he stopped several times to have a few words with those few soldiers still milling about. By the time Dassem finally pushed aside the heavy sheet of linen functioning as the entrance to his tent, his mouth was dry and his armor sat heavy on his shoulders. He quickly set about discarding it, stripping off pieces of metal plate and boiled leather—

There was a rustle of cloth. An inconspicuous sound had it not been for the fact that Dassem couldn’t have made it – the dry scratch of leather was distinctly different from the rather more soft slink of cotton. That he had heard it at all was as much testament to his own nerves as it was to the intent of his visitor, though Dassem couldn’t begin to fathom what had brought him here.

After a moment, during which he pondered his options but came to no entirely satisfactory conclusion, Dassem slowly turned toward the dark back corner of the tent and said, “I was starting to wonder whether you were going to keep your silence until I was naked.”

“That would have been a fine sight indeed,” Dancer admitted as he stepped out of the shadows. They parted from him like the tarried remnants of an old cloak: in pieces, and with a certain silky reluctance. “But, no. Your ego is already bolstered enough without my gawping to provide more fuel for that particular fire.”

The deliberate ease with which Dancer held himself was enough to tell Dassem that the master assassin was not merely here to bid him goodnight, either – but he would tell him his reasoning in his own time. Rushing Dancer had never gotten anyone anywhere.

Nevertheless. There were lines in Dancer’s face that hadn’t been there the last time they had seen each other, and the dark smudges under his eyes spoke of too many late nights and exhaustion that went beyond the usual levels.

“Kellanved’s keeping you busy,” Dassem finally ventured, genuine concern mixed with just a hint of friendly mocking creeping into his voice despite himself.

Dancer must have caught it, too, because he quirked an eyebrow and a small, impish smile played around his lips as he replied, “We’ve been . . . travelling a lot, Kellanved and I. Searching, if you will.”

They looked at each other, and for a moment it seemed as if Dancer was going to expound on his answer – Dassem halted him with a shake of his head.

“I don’t want to know,” he sighed wearily. Some things were better left unsaid, Dassem knew full well. It was a lesson he had learned many times over since they had all stood in front of the gates to the Deadhouse, grandly proclaiming their ambitions to any who might overhear. How far they had come since then. How much had changed. “Although I wouldn’t go travelling for too long, if I were you. Surly’s been getting restless.”

A quiet laugh followed his warning. “Believe it or not, we _are_ aware of her misgivings.” And probably counting on them, too, if Dassem knew anything about the way Kellanved liked to construct his plans.

Still. He had to ask. “But it’s not going to stop you from whatever you’re doing, is it?”

Dancer shook his head and leaned back against the tent’s main supporting beam, momentarily closing his eyes. Silence stretched between them once more.

With a pointed shrug, Dassem removed the rest of his armor, until all that remained were the almost thread-bare pants. Gesturing for Dancer to take a seat at the table usually reserved for maps and other paraphernalia, he then walked over to a small chest and pulled out two worn glasses. After filling them with the most potent brew he had on hand, Dassem sat down as well and offered one of the glasses to the other man – and if Dancer’s fingers brushed his just a bit too long when he took it then, well. Exhaustion made even the sharpest of men sloppy.

“To old friends,” Dancer intoned as he raised his glass to his lips. His face was an unreadable mask.

“To old friends.” The alcohol burned his throat but even so Dassem drank until his glass was almost empty. And then, slowly, he set down the glass. Levelled his gaze, schooled his face into impassivity. Said, “Why are you here, Dancer?”

The leader of the Talon, Kellanved’s most trusted friend and adviser, founding member of the Malazan Empire—he shrugged and would not meet Dassem’s eyes. And that was not like him at all; unlike Surly or Toc the Elder, Dancer had never been one to love the sound of his own voice overly much. Yet he was not one to flinch from a question, either, and it worried Dassem that his old friend was now refusing to even so much as acknowledge his words.

Demonstratively, Dassem turned back to the drink in front of him – he was willing to give Dancer time if that was what he needed. More than that, Dassem was willing to let the scraping of chair legs against rough ground go uncommented, too, even if the implications of the sound stung more than he cared to admit. He was about to drown the emotion in the last dregs remaining in his glass when Dancer called out, “Dassem.”

When he turned his head to look up, Dancer was standing just between the flaps of the tent’s entrance, the shallow moonlight from outside shrouding him in shadows once more. Darkness played over his features and wrapped around him almost like the arms of a lover – it gave him a solemn, almost sinister air, but it was a look Dassem was used to seeing on him.

“Yes?”

The cloth flapped, caught in an outside wind, and the shadows parted, once more revealing his friend’s face – lined with exhaustion and worry. Dancer smiled ruefully, and for the first time this evening Dassem thought it to be an actual, honest expression. “Watch yourself out there.”

Dassem downed the rest of his drink before nodding at his old friend. There were a lot of things he wanted to say – a reproach for keeping everyone in the dark about what he and Kellanved were up to, mostly. But beyond that, there was also the insistent fear that emperor and assassin had finally bitten off more than they could reasonably manage.

Things had changed between the three of them as the empire had grown, and while Dassem was well aware that his own – albeit ultimately temporary – position as Knight of Death had been the first thing to drive a wedge between the members of Kellanved’s family, things had grown out of hand more quickly than any of them could have imagined. There were other mitigating circumstances, too, of course; Dassem was not conceited enough to believe that the fate of their family had ultimately rested on his shoulders alone.

There had been many other things that had all played a part in maneuvering them into this position – his daughter’s death, Kellanved taking the Throne of the Imass, the ongoing Seven Cities campaign. Surly’s ambitions, last but never least.

Yes. As much as they had been a family in the early days of the empire, that bond was quickly fraying between them now for all that Kellanved and Dancer might pretend not to see it. There were several kinds of flight, after all, and just because the two of them were chasing after something did not mean that they weren’t running, too – it was a dichotomy Dassem himself had come to know all too intimately in the recent years.

It was a matter that was best left unspoken, however, and Dassem well knew it. Years ago he might have acted differently – spoken up, perhaps even admonished his friend – but the time for doubts was long past. Happenstance had played its part, but in the end they had all made their own choices. And as old-trodden as the sentiment was, they would now have to live with the consequences – although perhaps in a somewhat more metaphorical sense for some of them than for others.

In the end, Dassem settled for a quick nod and a simple, “You watch your back too, Dancer.”

**Author's Note:**

> To quote the golden rule of Malazan: "The timeline is not important!"


End file.
